


oh, he's so handsome (what's his name?)

by pensee



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Instagram Influencer Will, Crack Treated Seriously, E-commerce, Hannibal Lecter is a dirty old man, Hannibal is Abigail's Father, How does live-streaming work, Instagram Influencer Freddie, M/M, No one checked me on these things so sorry, Pervert Hannibal, Social Media AU, Sponsorships from fictional companies, Super Bowl references, pop culture references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: “This Super Bowl ad is gonna be a game-changer for us, she said. It’s gonna send us through the roof, she said. We’re gonna have more followers after this than a Kardashian, she said.”A half-dozen pair of unblinking eyes stare at Will from across the soundstage (aka Freddie’s shitty-but-set-dressed-studio apartment). Fucking heathens. Didn’t know a decent Bruce-Willis-from-Die-Hard impression if it bit them in the ass.-Will Graham is a college student with debt coming out of his ears. He accidentally becomes a social media phenomenon because he's got an Instagram influencer in his social circle, and meets Hot Dad Hannibal while he's at it.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 125





	oh, he's so handsome (what's his name?)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt to myself, like an idiot: "Somebody please stop me or I’m going to write a drabble about Instagram influencer Will Graham turning himself into a camboy for some Hot Dad (aka rhymes with Mannibal) who hits up that twink after seeing his tag during a Super Bowl ad snippet."
> 
> And thus, this fuckery was born. 
> 
> Note: I am way too old and jaded to understand e-commerce, internet live-streaming, or anything else found within. Please, be gentle with me. 😉

“ _This Super Bowl ad is gonna be a game-changer for us, she said. It’s gonna send us through the roof, she said. We’re gonna have more followers after this than a Kardashian, she said_.”

A half-dozen pair of unblinking eyes stare at Will from across the soundstage (aka Freddie’s shitty-but-set-dressed-studio apartment). Fucking heathens. Didn’t know a decent Bruce-Willis-from- _Die-Hard_ impression if it bit them in the ass.

God, Will felt old sometimes, if old was pushing eighteen and already half-alcoholic, with student debt up to his armpits on a degree he would never use because he was too busy fucking off for Freddie’s sponsorship scraps to bother with actually pursuing forensics as a real job. Fuck it, working in e-commerce _was_ a real job; sure paid better, anyway, even if it was a bit much to adjust to the fact that the number of likes and re-blogs was what translated into his bank account filling up every month.

Still, it was time to make some changes around here. Freddie really was too greedy to keep any one of her assistants on for long.

“Okay, I have no idea what _that_ little outburst was, Graham. Anyway, yes, it’s last minute, but the editing staff in Orlando are going to clean up a clip from the livestream, splice it into what they already have, and—,” Freddie starts, but Will cuts her off at the punch.

“I’ve been telling you to get on them about a recording time, but no, you just go along with them, let them boss you around—which let me tell you, way out of character, Lounds—and _we’ve got twenty fucking minutes_ until half time. Which, if you weren’t paying attention, _is exactly when your pre-recorded ten-seconds of fame is supposed to air._ ”

Freddie shrugs, her already perfect hair and makeup almost eerie in the too-bright stage lights. She looks almost like a porcelain doll, and Will’s never been particularly good around fragile things.

“Uh, I let them boss me around because they are Big Time and we are Small Fry. Two million followers is nothing compared to what the NFL has, or anyone else that’s gonna be on this commercial, so maybe you’re the one who’s not paying attention, Will.”

Clapping her hands, she announces, “Battle stations, everyone!” and brushes Will off like she has a thousand times before.

 _Whatever_ , Will sighs silently, busying himself with rearranging the knickknacks around Freddie’s product desk so that they’re just the way she always likes them. _At least_ I’m _not the one who has to make a fool of myself in front of the camera_.

“Don’t settle for less, try concealers from Miss Bess!” Freddie says, overly cheerful, winking in that signature way of hers, cat eyes playful.

“That’s great, Freddie, okay, we’re gonna mute the audio, and put you and your username tag at the 15 second mark, alright? Um, camera’s still rolling, you’ve got a few more seconds. Just do something cute, oh, okay, Mark, wait, can you do that again, our lighting guy says the lava lamp behind you is casting some sort of weird glow. Get someone over there to move it.”

Freddie waves frantically at Will, smiling for the camera though her voice is venomous as she barks, “Come on, Will, daylight’s burning.”

She’s live-streaming the Super Bowl commercial taping to her followers, and comments are pouring in, Will’s ancient Mac pinging like crazy in the corner.

_Ooooh, lookin fierce, queen! <33333_

_love you love you love you_

_omGGGGGGGGGGGG_

_OMG WHO IS THAT_

_WHO IS THAT WHO THE FUCKING FLIPPING HECKIN FUCK IS THAT_

_ohholyshithe’sbeautiful_

_WHO THE FUKKKK IS THAT TELL ME NOW_

“Uh, Will?” Zeller says, when Will has unplugged and gingerly begun to move the lava lamp out of the way without attracting too much attention away from Freddie’s spotlight.

“What?” he whispers, tip-toeing out of camera range.

_Jesus, look at those BLUE EYES_

_forget the eyes look at his lips_

_oh shit that boy was made for makeup_

_BRING HIM ON THE SHOW FREDDIE_

_PLZZZZZZZZZ_

“Uh, say hi,” Zeller says, and because Will’s an idiot who forgets that Freddie’s supposed to be in charge, he follows Zeller’s prompting gesture and smiles at Jimmy, who’s standing behind the camera with the sort of dismayed look he gets whenever things are spiraling out of control (which, admittedly, is often).

_Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee his smile_

_Lights up a fuckng room lemme tell you_

_Oh my God new crush material new crush_

_OK SCREENCAPPING POSTING EVERYONE RT HIS BEAUTIFUL FACE FOR ME K?????_

_YESSSSS SECONDED RIGHT BEHIND YOU_

“Oops,” Bev says, adjusting the lamp to the left of Freddie’s desk. Still, Will appreciates that her professional courtesy doesn’t quite hide her smirk.

The ad’s not even out yet, and Freddie’s already fuming in her chair at even being temporarily outshined by a less-than-glorified production assistant.

 _That bodes well for my future_ , Will thinks, because Freddie’s always got something to say, and now, she’s probably going to have even millions more people to share it with.

Abigail is scrolling through social media highlights the day after the big game, and there are remnants of hard-won victories, polls about the best and worst halftime commercials, animated graphics of Shakira and Jennifer Lopez performing onstage, but Hannibal knows his daughter, and Abigail is not the type to waste idle time preoccupied about the lives of millions of strangers she will never meet.

“What are you looking for?” he asks, leaning over her shoulder and chuckling to himself when she tries to shrug him off.

“Nothing,” she says, a bit of flush to her cheeks, and Hannibal knows this must have something to do with a topic she finds embarrassing.

“Oh God, whatever, you’re gonna find out eventually. I don’t know, Sarah and Fritz and fucking everyone were going on about this guy at school—This guy they saw for _two seconds_ on a Super Bowl commercial or something? He’s a total fucking meme. There's a picture of him like a deer caught in the headlights on Freddie Lounds’s show, but I can’t find—Oh, shit, here he is.”

Hannibal hums in acknowledgment as she pulls up a separate page with a screencapped snapshot of a young boy—perhaps a few years older than her, perhaps her age—smiling shyly, eyes downcast though he’s clearly aware of being filmed.

“Huh, says he’s got, like, a social media presence, but he used to be practically a nobody. 'Started out with less than ten thousand followers...' Oh my gosh, now he’s got, like, a million. No shit, he’s Freddie Lounds’s fucking assistant or something!”

Abigail proudly displays a Hello Friend account called xWillxGrahamx (horribly unimaginative username, even for a teenage boy). Age 18, college junior. Pursuing a degree in forensics is the only bit of information that gives Hannibal any pause, other than the boy’s exceptionally pleasing face.

He has been known, once or twice, to indulge in something for the sole reason he finds it pleasing.

“Ew, he’s from, like, Virginia, why is that so far away?!”

“Are you attracted to him?” Hannibal asks, not bothering to hide his smile.

“Uh, look at him, Daddy, he’s a fucking ten. And look at these posts, like, entomology of decomposing bodies, re-blogs of medical texts? He’s just as much of a freak as we are.”

“I am an emergency room surgeon, and you have an unhealthy preoccupation with podcasts about serial killers. This hardly qualifies us as ‘freaks’,” Hannibal points out, and Abigail rolls her eyes.

“Okay, whatever, so he’s not a freak either— _what the hell, there are a shit-ton of Freddie’s posts about floral scented hand lotion on here_ —but we might get along anyway.”

The modern day is full of amazing impossibilities; useful inventions in medicine, transportation, renewable energy. And these marvels, of course, include the ability to exploit technology that may narrow the distance between two otherwise distant points.

“A wonderful fantasy, I’m sure,” Hannibal says. “Now back to your homework, I know you’ve got a pre-calculus quiz tomorrow.”

“Yes, Dad,” she huffs dramatically, minimizing the browser window (to return to as soon as he’s out of sight, he’s sure).

 _No matter_ , Hannibal thinks, going upstairs to his study. He already has the boy’s information memorized.

“I was surprised to see that you accepted my message request, much less agreed to video chat.”

Hannibal studies the boy on the screen, made even paler by the glow of his laptop, and resists the urge to smile like a shark. Considers whether the boy's choice to appear with a dark room behind him is for anonymity or aesthetic purposes, and decides he likes either explanation.

“I mean, you didn’t send me a dick pic as an icebreaker, so I figured you’re probably less of a creep than most.”

 _And I need the extra money_ , goes unspoken between them, as does the fact that Hannibal checked off a recurring donation of a hundred dollars to the boy’s PayPal account for the next seven days.

“I could simply be a lonely old man, looking for company.”

“Yeah, I doubt that. There have been at least thirty-three thousand ‘lonely old men’ looking me up since that stupid livestream footage hit social media. Freddie actually chewed me out for it overshadowing her Super Bowl ad time, like I even cared.”

The boy’s lips twist for a moment, as if he realize he’s revealed too much.

“Look, I’m not really up for anything but talking, if that’s what you think I’m here for. So, sorry to disappoint you.”

Hannibal notes that, despite the boy’s nearly overwhelming beauty, his curls are unruly and his red, red mouth is permanently etched in a melancholy half-frown. Arms crossed over his chest, he looks truly the impenetrable painter’s muse, entirely fed up with how the maestro has been treating him.

The stretched collar of a thin white t-shirt slips over the gentle curve of the boy’s shoulder, and Hannibal reminds himself to appear less of the type of monster that pretty Will Graham already expects him to be.

“Talking is fine. What would you like to discuss,” he says, and the boy’s exhale is audible.

“Where should I start?” he asks, looking up from below his lashes, and Hannibal shows him a bit of his sharp teeth.

Imagines he can see the boy’s heartbeat flutter, just for a moment.

“Where, indeed,” he says lowly, and relishes the pink flush the two little innocuous words bring to the boy’s lovely cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, my sense of humor is awful. Yes, I am on social media. I'm @penseeart on Twitter. It's mostly Hannigram with some multifandom thrown in. If you found this entertaining even in the slightest, I think we'll get along just fine. <3


End file.
